My earliest memories of art class around Kindergarten
involved my grandmother trying to convince my art teacher that I was “really
gifted”. My grandmother, being a rather
outspoken matriarch had marched into parent teacher conferences with the attitude
that I was some kind of Picasso in the making.
The art teacher smiled politely but didn’t comment much. Shortly after my turn, I remember hearing her
rave about another student. It was the
first subtle hint jogging my memories that I was on the verge of something evil
to come……
Creepy, foreboding forest with an unnatural
hush in the air is the setting. Even the
animals are too terrified to move or utter sound. They know that horror lurks and its sharp,
strong jaw will clench them if they but wince.
Then I come ambling along, too preoccupied to see the danger
lurking. “Fa la la la la” I hum loudly,
tripping over my shoe laces. A whoosh in
the brush, a whir, a horrible, bone chilling scream and I am suddenly ambushed
by none other than……………..art.
Seriously, its been
that way with me and crafts for some time now.
That Kindergarten memory was just the beginning. At camp Wannakewin, I made a wide circle
around the craft cabin and avoided it at all costs. Even torrential rain and mosquitoes was
better than going in there!! In Jr High,
I was getting an “F” in art. I had to
beg my boyfriend, now husband to cheat and submit some assignments for me just
to pull up to a “D-“. Another memory was
the time a Sr. High boy drug me off into the art closet, locking us in together while the whole class
roared in laughter at my screams and bangs on the door to be let out. At the time, the art teacher thought it was funny. Memory after memory of failed art projects,
mean kids and unimpressed art mentors plague me. By the time adulthood rolled around, and I
get invited to do crafts with other women here and there, I flat out retort “Crafts Creep Me Out!” Usually an eye roll is involved on the
part of the inviting female. They remain
unimpressed with my lack of enthusiasm.
I truly mean with all my heart “Crafts Creep Me Out” and they do.
If I don’t hum
loudly and I hold really still and don’t breathe, when art passes by, he might
not get me. Still, every so often, I
find him sniffing about hungrily wanting to devour me. He’s the kind of raging animal that wakes me
up in a cold sweat. I suspect he’s been
peering in the window at me while I am innocently drooling on my pillow. He ever so cautiously waits to spring on me
when I least expect it. Sometimes he
hides under my bed ready to gnaw my ankle off at the first sight of my foot
hitting the floor. It’s a totally
irrational fear, about as rational as the Boogie man hiding under my bed. Still, just typing about him makes me feel
like hyperventilating.
This big bad Boogie
man had been holding my girlfriend Elasta Woman in chains for quite some time
now. He has her fascinated in this
dreadful obsession called “crochet”.
Just like any unhealthy addiction such as drugs and alcohol, Elasta
Woman got sucked into this terrible vortex of “triple treble”. I tried to warn her about the evils of this
crafty vice, but she just laughed it off and got her kids sucked in. Before long her girls were making all manner
of hats, scarves and even dresses. Soon
Goat girl and Mist were addicted. This
terrible plague seemed contagious and wide spread to all who were exposed. “Krafty Kay” seemed to be the ring leader or
yarn pusher if you will. She seemed like
a nice young mom from all outer appearances, but if you take a closer look, you
will find that she and the whole craft thing are tight. If you pull on the monstrous weave of tightly
knit stitches, you will find “Krafty Kay” right smack dab in the center of all
the handiwork. What lengths would she go
to to infect the entire valley with her fiendish scheme?
You guessed it. She held another crocheting craft day at her
apartment connected to the mercantile with all my innocent, addicted
girlfriends, slaves, crocheted in its clutches.
This time Elasta Woman rather strongly suggested I attend.
Night after night I
tossed and turned, dreading the day. Its
like inviting your girlfriend to have a root canal with you, or maybe a
colonoscopy. What kind of warped mind
thinks crocheting with a bunch of other girlfriends is fun anyway? I gladly accepted a night shift working as an
Emergency RN the night before, knowing it would delay the inevitable as I would
have to sleep some of the day away. At
some point I would have to get up and show up.
I dawdled, drinking some coffee, washing my dishes, cleaning up dog puke
and checking news on face book. I knew I
was about to face a ghastly opponent. My
stomach lurched. I wanted to purl – I mean
hurl. I held back involuntary wretches
as I stepped out the door with my kids in tow.
I could no longer delay the inevitable…….
The girls seemed
genuinely happy to see me upon my arrival.
Nervously I settled into a chair, bracing myself. They all seemed oblivious of my
discomfort. Krafty Kay had me sit
reeeaaal close to her so she could show me how to start my stitching pattern. I forced myself to breath evenly. “Show no fear” I reminded myself. Thankfully, there was food on the counter and
Miss Belly Fat called to me often. I
suspect that she and art are in cahoots with each other. I tried to explain to the girls about my
irrational fear of crafts. I told them
it was kind of like the time we all went cliff jumping. “Remember being frozen out on that ledge?” I
asked them. They frowned and none of
them felt they could reasonably compare crocheting with cliff jumping.
Bravely, like Dora
on “Finding Nemo”, I repeated to myself “just keep crocheting” “just keep
crocheting”. At first it all looked like
a menacing jumble of knots, but over time I could pick out just a bit of
pattern. The girls all encouraged me
with words like “you can do it” and “look at you go”. Gracie suggested “Just pretend like crocheting is not a
craft”. Later on Rabbit, Elasta Woman’s
daughter rubbed my shoulders as I battled ferociously. I imagined myself as Rocky in a fighting
ring. That old Rocky music was playing
loudly, inspiring me. Rabbit was like
the coach on the corner between rounds.
I was really ready to knock out some bad boxer, maybe even the Boogie
Man himself. On and on, round after
round I stitched suppressing the fears that shrieked loudly “Stop it right
now!! You don’t do crafts!!”
When it was finally
time to go home and get ready for work again I had an actual piece of work
started. It is a partially formed
hat. Remember the time all the girls sat
around in a circle and whispered about you?
That’s how crafts were for me.
They were and still are kind of like a clique that I wasn’t a part
of. I was always an outsider, looking
in, too insecure to even attempt to join them, embarrassed of myself letting my
imagination go wild about what those girls might be whispering. My shoulders slump, my head hangs down and I
want to hide. Somehow, today, just some
how, the Boogie man wasn’t quite so threatening. Somehow I managed to do some stitches like
the other girls and bravely moved into uncharted territory. Really, I think crafting is just as
terrifying to me as cliff jumping. It
makes me sick to grab that hook and move the yarn around. I want to throw up, but I force myself to do
it anyway. I asked God not to let me
live my life missing out on anything.
Long ago I learned that the secret to getting out of yourself is to do
things afraid. That’s what I did and that’s
how I accomplished part of a hat today.
Elasta Woman looked pleased and proud of me. I smiled, wearing the hat that she recently stitched
for me...............................
